


Painting

by xxwrote_my_way_outxx



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Gay, M/M, Tbh this started as smut but then it didn't end up there whoops, kinda angsty?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-06
Updated: 2017-08-06
Packaged: 2018-12-11 17:06:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11718726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xxwrote_my_way_outxx/pseuds/xxwrote_my_way_outxx
Summary: Alexander always noticed the way that John got paint all over himself when he painted. It was easy to see that John was always concentrated when he was painting in their shared apartment, never quite listening when talked to and never wanted to be disturbed. The freckled man rambled on before about how painting was an experience of the mind and tried to compare it to when Alexander wrote, though Alexander didn’t quite understand that. How were writing and painting anything alike? He had never done painting, but he knew that John wrote. He wouldn’t question it though. He knew that John didn’t like to argue about subjects such as art, and said that Alexander made him feel dumb when they argued about anything. Alexander couldn’t help it if he “knew” he was always right.





	Painting

**Author's Note:**

> This started as smut, but then it didn't get there :") whoops. Enjoy anyways!

Alexander always noticed the way that John got paint all over himself when he painted. It was easy to see that John was always concentrated when he was painting in their shared apartment, never quite listening when talked to and never wanted to be disturbed. The freckled man rambled on before about how painting was an experience of the mind and tried to compare it to when Alexander wrote, though Alexander didn’t quite understand that. How were writing and painting anything alike? He had never done painting, but he knew that John wrote. He wouldn’t question it though. He knew that John didn’t like to argue about subjects such as art, and said that Alexander made him feel dumb when they argued about anything. Alexander couldn’t help it if he “knew” he was always right. 

He was completely overlooking the fact that he said he didn’t like one of John’s paintings before, not registering why John might not actually be wanting to talk to him when he was working.  
The unabashedly arrogant islander wanted nothing more than the smudge the paint on John’s face even more. John couldn’t complain about Alexander being bothersome if his mouth was preoccupied by moans and his mind was filled with mayhem. He could paint something far more interesting with what Alexander had in mind for him. 

The next time that John was painting he was at the table with a small aisle and canvas in from of him, having been working on a portrait of a beautiful, dark woman with icy blue eyes. Alexander had to admit that it was beautiful, but the hot streak of royal blue that trailed from John’s bottom lip to his cheek was far more satisfying. 

Alex had slithered behind the freckled man at some point, lazily slinging his arms around his lover’s neck and pressing his cheek against the other’s and asked in a rather lackluster voice, “What are you painting?”  
“If you opened your eyes and looked at it you could answer your own question.” 

John oftentimes got blunt when he was painting as Alexander got rude and isolated when he was writing. It was a double-edged sword, and Alexander didn’t understand the hypocrisy of him getting angry at his lover for the same behavior he embodied. Alexander could be the smartest man alive when it came to politics, but he lacked common sense, and it was obvious in most decisions he made, such as this one. He didn’t pick up on social cues, and didn’t realize that John often acted like this in a way of expressing how rude Alexander was for doing the same thing. 

“That’s not very nice of you, little turtle. I was wondering if there was a deeper meaning for…this.” 

John rolled his eyes in a tad bit of annoyance before he explained, “No, it’s really nothing. It’s a commission. It might not mean anything to me, but it certainly does to someone else if they’re paying me to paint it for them.” He continued the details on the eyes, not looking at Alexander or paying him any extra attention than he deserved.  
“Why do you paint things if they have no meaning to you?” Alexander asked. 

“It’s kind of my job, Alexander. Kind of how you have to deal with stances that you don’t like to appease those around you so you don’t get fired again.”  
Alexander really didn’t understand why John was getting so worked up over a few simple questions. 

“If you don’t like it then you shouldn’t do it, just like when I don’t like something I try to get out of it.” 

“I do like my job, Alexander. Actually, I love it. You’re the one who doesn’t like my job. Please let me get back to work.” 

“You don’t have to be like this. Who said I never liked your job? I love your work.” With his one-tracked mind the islander playfully started to unbutton the top few knobs of John’s shirt, not noticing John moving uncomfortably underneath him and how heated the freckled man seemed to be. 

“Can you listen for me for once instead of trying to shut me up by putting your hands on me?” 

He could hear the break in John’s voice and his fingers paused for a moment, not sure what was happening. Alexander happened to forget each time he’d look at what John would be working on and shrugged, or the way he would passively scowl at how John preoccupied himself with his paintings. Alexander always wanted to have his hands on his lover instead of his mind, so when John started to cry he wasn’t sure what to do except for hug him, and when he did he was terrified to see John slap his hands away and his tears growing.  
“Don’t touch me! Just listen to me, for once, please!” 

John wiped at his own face, the blue smearing across his skin and smudging onto the color of his shirt. This was not what Alexander had intended. Not at all. 

“What has gotten into you? I was just asking you a few questions?” 

“You do this every time I paint, all you do is degrade what I do!” He sniffled, putting his paintbrush down onto the table near his pallet and inhaled deeply, trying to gain some composure. “You always look at me funny, always want me to stop my work, always coax me into pleasing you when I’m busy even though I have a job. All you do is look over what I do because you don’t understand what I do. Congratulations, you write, that’s important, but what I do is important to!” The way that John’s olive skin lit up a pink color and his eyes swelled with tears made Alexander’s heart feel uneasy. 

“I didn’t think that it really ma-“

“You don’t think anything matters unless you benefit from it Alexander.” 

“That’s not true I-“

“If it wasn’t than we wouldn’t be in this situation that we’re in right now where you’re doing the same thing over and over again. And tomorrow you’ll try to do the same thing again. And again, and again, and again..” He shrank into himself, his knees drawing into his chest and his head falling to his knees as he started to sob, unable to hold the tears back. 

The way that John sobbed into his knees shook Alexander’s core. His eyes wandered over to one of the paintings that were on the floor in the corner of the room and noticed that the person was crying in it. Hadn’t he painted that one just yesterday..? The painting evoked something in him. Sadness. How could something that was just a swatch of different colors on a piece of canvas make him feel like he understood something? It made him realize…John had been feeling this way for awhile. John wouldn’t have painted a picture of a person so sad if he himself did not feel that way, just as Alexander would not write a proclamation without it expressing how he felt. 

He got down on his knees in front of him and carefully wrapped his hands around the other’s shoes, squeezing his feet slightly through them before resting his head against the tip of them, sure that John wouldn’t want any other part of him touched at the moment. 

“I’m sorry…” 

And for once he felt stupid, and incredibly so. How did he not see the way that John expressed himself before? He gave him so many clues and showed him the signs in the form of his art. It felt as if he didn’t even know how to read.  
From that day forward Alexander never questioned what John was painting. He simply pulled up a chair and watched him for hours, holding one of his hands beneath the table and simply drawing his thumb over his knuckles. John’s artwork progressively got happier when Alexander spent time with him instead of time mocking him. Instead of blues on his lips, he often had yellows or pinks, or Alexander’s own lips on occasion when he was especially overwhelmed with joy. 

In the future, Alexander had picked up the paintbrush one day, and he painted, and painted. Something deep within him compelled him to do so. There was something that Alexander knew that he couldn’t express through writing and it confused him, and made him feel even dumber than when he questioned John about what art made him feel instead of what feelings made art.  
It was not the best thing on the planet, given he had never done something before, but the color of olive skin and darker pigments were noticeable on the painting, and orbs that were green in color.  
John had come up behind him, shocked to see a paintbrush in his hand. He walked up quietly behind him and wrapped his arms around Alexander’s shoulders in the softest way Alexander had ever felt before and asked, “What are you painting, love?” 

“My happiness.” 

“What is that?” 

“You.” 

And they never questioned each other’s art again.


End file.
